


hold me without touch (keep me without chains)

by inkfiction



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sex as Coping Mechanism, this is kinda rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:55:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: they are two very broken people who found each other in so many ways.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson (Elementary), Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	hold me without touch (keep me without chains)

**Author's Note:**

> this thing practically wrote itself a few years ago, back in s1 actually. i do not really ship them. i mean i think i could've gotten behind it if it had happened on the show. so, no, i don’t ship them. but i like this dynamic. it might read too rough to some people, and i know sherlock is a total sub. but well here we are. there are times when you cannot choose what you write. the formatting is deliberate. the title is from 'gravity' by sara bareilles.

**i.**

she tries to be subtle and cool and seductive but she's miserable and she just wants to forget for a while, to escape her demons (so she creates new ones), and he's drunk. he bends her over the kitchen counter, yanking down her yoga pants, not even bothering with her shirt, holds her hipbone to steady the shivering of her lower half (her bare thighs against the cold marble counter) before grabbing her wrists and holding them both in one of his hands at the small of her back, and then he enters her in a swift, precise stroke, pumping in even, rapid thrusts. he's warm inside her, and solid, and for a moment she lets everything else go, there's just him, warm and heavy and rapid behind her, his breath coming out in little grunts of effort, and she holds herself steadier against the marble top as his momentum and her orgasm build up, faster, higher. he thrusts deeper now, almost painful (she opens her legs wider to give him more access) and this pain is ecstasy, an intermingling; she hears herself moan, low, animalistic, and he lets go of her hip with his hand which slips to the front, two fingers deep into her slick folds and rubs in unrelenting circles over her clit (she screams now) faster, faster, and then he spills inside her, climaxing with a deep, resonating growl, and she feels the wetness that runs out of her and down the inside of her thigh, and the wetness that spills down her cheeks and onto the marble top. he bends over her, not letting go of her hands, his whiskey breath warm beside her ear, and rubs her clit until she comes once more against his fingers, with him still filling her insides.

  
  


**ii.**

the next time he's not drunk but she's been fidgety all morning (she had one of those 'stuck in the o.r.' dreams again the night before) and he sits in his ridiculously expensive and pink chair (really what is it with the british and their chairs?) and grabs her hand and pulls her near as she walks by (oomf, she says) before she can say sherlock. she does say 'what is it?' when he holds her hands in his hand, and 'what are you–!?' when he reaches under her skirt to take a hold of her pantyhose, and 'what the hell!' when he rips it off, and 'sherlock!' when he targets her string-tied panties next, although it comes out breathier and more of a moan than a protest. "quiet," he orders. "nngh," she replies as he unties the knots one handed, making them look flimsy and discards the panties like a solved case file. it isn't long after that that his fly is unzipped and he gently pulls and raises her at the same time, making her straddle his thighs. "shh," she tries to say, "shh–" she says again, ending in a strange, hiccoughy whimper as he captures her hands again, this time behind her back, and lowers her down onto himself (her eyes are half-closed, rolling back in her skull as he enters her). she rides him, struggling against the hold on her wrists (but not really, no, he isn't holding that tightly) and it's a dance, a symphony, where they rise and fall together, against each other, wrapped in each other, until the crescendo, and he thinks she's beautiful like that, back arched, hands held behind her back, chest heaving, those inky black hair all over the place, and he thinks she's beautiful as he lets go of her hands and she falls lightly against him.

**iii.**

the third time she's angry (she's been angry for days and he's been waiting) and finds him fussing over his books in his study. the third time she grabs him and almost throws him down on to the polished hardwood floor and climbs on top and leaves a trail of deep, angry bite marks down his neck as she rips off his shirt, breaking the buttons, the last one at the collar proving harder to pull off (she uses it as a chokehold later) and when he flips her, landing heavily on top of her, she slips her hands beneath the torn shirt and leaves long, bloody scratches on his pectorals and between his shoulder blades. his hands are rough with her tank top and his mouth over her breasts warm, wet, biting and pulling hard, mercilessly. she growls as she reaches down to unbutton his already too small for him right now jeans and they writhe around like maniacs on the floor, upending a table (sex surrounded by conspiracy theories – who'd have thought!) and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! she says, with a hoarse voice and tears in her eyes, angry, hot, burning down her cheeks, and he's almost gentle as he spreads her legs and enters her in a long, hard, painful thrust (she sobs as she meets him halfway, sobs as she opens herself up wider) and the pain is a relief, he knows, because he never lets up for a moment. he's on top and she's naked, writhing beneath him, gorgeous, and he worships her with a violence until she whimpers, fucks her until she screams, fucks her until she forgets. and he's left with a blue black bruise around his neck and bloody nail scratches on his chest and back, and her, limp and silent beneath him, eyes closed, moisture clinging to cheeks and lashes. he gathers her like he would a broken crystal vase and they stay like that for a long time.

**iv.**

the fourth time she refuses to be drawn and finally he gives in, and he takes control. he knows how she helped rebuild his life when he was half in shambles, and he knows now it is his turn. it was one of the bad days of a bad week, culminating in another bad night. late at night he brings her tea in the bed but she hasn’t slept (not for days) and does not move, and she’s been angry and sad, but he knows that, and he knows what she would want him to do, but the fourth time he doesn’t. he gets in behind her, instead, softly (no forceful overthrowing of anything this time) and props his head on his elbow and looks at the back of her form for a long moment before reaching out and turning her towards him. the fourth time he gently sweeps back that ink black hair from her face and tries to imagine what it would be like if he counted each freckle with his lips. so the fourth time when she looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, he cups her face and bends over her and gently touches her eyelids with her lips. and the fourth time he kisses her, softly, gently, insistently, until she sighs and leans in. she doesn’t move but she kisses back, and then the hands that had been lying on the bed, unmoving, are on his shoulders, and then they are around them. and the fourth time he handles her like she would break (and maybe she would, maybe she has) but he’s there, right there, and he holds her when she lets go (she’s so tired) and the fourth time he makes love to her. and when she breaks and she crashes, he holds on to her until the tears dry in the crook of his neck, until she falls asleep, cocooned in him, and the fourth time he loves her and he holds on to her until dawn.


End file.
